Red, Not Green
by AmeryMarie
Summary: "I have never understood why the color green is associated with jealousy; jealousy is red, the color of passion and anger and blood. It's the color of the blood boiling in my veins as I watch her touch him...and then he is moving towards her." OS, Mature


A/N: This was my contribution to BreathofTwilight's Valentines Day countdown. I apparently forgot to post this under my profile. Oops! Thanks to V and Em for the last minute betaing on this, and my LoD girls. I was trying something with this, so it's maybe a bit different than my other stuff, but I hope you like it.

Happy _extremely_ late Valentines Day!

**Red, Not Green**

~\*/~

I feel the first familiar stirrings in the pit of my stomach. It winds, coils, grows . . . _tighter _. . . _tighter_ . . . _tighter_ . . . and just when I think the tension can't possibly grow anymore . . . nothing. It stops and sits there, its weight heavy in my gut.

Tingles start to pulse through my body in combination with an icy numbness. The mixture of the two sensations is disconcerting but—if I'm honest—not altogether unpleasant.

Adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream, flooding my brain. Badump-badump-badump-badump-badump . . . my heart thuds molto allegro in my chest as my vascular system constricts and my respiratory rate increases. My muscles involuntarily contract—poised for action— my pupils dilate, time slows down, and all my senses seem to sharpen.

A neon light-like buzz hums in my ears, background music to the other noises in the room. Disconnected, I'm hovering somewhere over my body, and the only thing tethering me to it is an invisible thread. A strange sense of calm washes over me; it's in direct opposition to the tension now sitting heavier in the pit of my belly and the slow fire that begins to course through me.

Starting at my feet, the flames lick at my delicate flesh as they creep upwards . . . _slowly_ . . . _slowly_ . . . _ever so slowly_. My vision is obscured by a red haze and, as the flames reach the crown of my skull, an intense rage descends upon me. It feels like pouring gas on a fire.

I have never understood why the color green is associated with jealousy; jealousy is red, the color of passion and anger and blood. It's the color of the blood boiling in my veins as I watch her touch him . . . and then he is moving towards her. A sexy, smug grin on his face and his eyes glittering, he leans to her ear, his lips just barely grazing the shell as he whispers to her. My nails dig painfully into my palms when she tilts her body forward, turning so that her breasts press snugly against him. The gorgeous, vaguely familiar, redhead shivers imperceptibly and her eyes try to flutter closed.

I stand in place, frozen despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. All I can do is stare while the man I love more than life does nothing to repel or spurn his companions rather obvious advances. The redhead sees me staring and pulls slightly away from him, guilt darkening her features for just a moment before her gleaming eyes lock with mine. With the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly, she wraps her hand . . . finger . . . by . . . delicate . . . finger . . . around his forearm and then brings her face closer to him; much, much closer than absolutely necessary. She's so fucking close that all she would have to do is turn her head slightly and their mouths would be touching.

She says something to him, tilting her head in my direction, and then crosses her arms over her chest. His head snaps up and she rolls her pretty green eyes with what I imagine is disdain. A smile steals lazily across his face when he sees me. He gestures me over, and the way in which he does it, it's as if I need an invitation to join him…which I don't. He _is _waiting for me, after all. I'm not some acquaintance imposing on his date with the woman practically sitting in his lap—although that's exactly what it must look like to the casual observer. The flames I am trying to stifle flare with a dull roar, engulfing me again, and I know I'm about to cause a scene.

The scarlet harlot drops her chin and turns her face into her shoulder, but not before I see her small smirk. I'll be damned if I'm going to let the catty bitch think she beat me. Giving it right back, I plaster on my best fake smile and walk towards them. I nudge between them, not so subtly telling her to back the fuck off, and throw my arms around his neck. Pulling him to me, I lay a lip-lock on him that's so heavy with intent I actually blush, and the restraining hands that he placed on my hips—he's never been the biggest fan of PDA's, you see—reverse instead, pulling me closer. I slowly end the kiss by placing . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . and then a fourth . . . chaste kisses on his mouth.

"Sorry I'm late, love. My meeting ran over and traffic was hell," I say in between each pecks. My body sinuously slips into the small space between him and the bar, wedging me against his side. My arm still around him and the wide grin on my face all but scream, 'Take that, bitch. Mine.'

I look down at her, liking that my new position requires her to look up at me; I like the power it gives me, the dominance. He tenses beside me, angry and disappointed as he realizes what my oral display was for, but I don't look at him . . . I can't look at him. I wonder to myself, not for the first time, how someone so smart can be so fucking dumb? How can he not know that his behavior with her, their proximity to one another, was unacceptable?

_Because there was no lascivious intent on his part, _says a very small voice of reason in the back of my mind. I ignore it the same way I ignore the palpable anger radiating off him, practically burning my skin with its intensity.

I wonder for a second if Scarlet knows how furious he is with me, but I dismiss it. If there is one thing—I smile inwardly, thinking of him naked and moving above me—well, another thing he is good at, it's masking his emotions. He would have been a brilliant actor. Me, not so much. He chooses to ignore my excuses and apology and forge on, pushing my buttons intentionally.

"You remember my co-worker Victoria, don't you?" That's why she looks so familiar. My smile falters a bit and I don't answer him. I focus instead on the effort it's taking me to keep my smile in place. He continues on, intent on getting his barb in. "Vic was kind enough to keep me company while I waited for you to finally arrive."

I feel his eyes on me, tattooing his annoyance on the side of my face, since I refuse to turn and look at him. I keep my eyes on her, tilting my head, my bright smile brittle and tight as I say, "Well, I'm here now. We should probably get going. Don't want to lose our reservation."

"We already have. You're a half hour late." His monotone voice tells me he's beyond mad at me, and I know his façade is wearing thin. I can feel it shifting and rippling, exposing his outrage in small, shimmering bits and pieces.

I barely keep my smile on my face and I feel, more than see, Victoria's sudden unease, as if she senses danger, but isn't quite sure why or where it's coming from. I persevere though, unwilling to lose this fight in front of her even if she isn't aware of the showdown that is currently taking place.

"I'm sorry, baby," I say with syrupy sweetness. The only thing truthful about my apology is the disappointment lacing my words. I don't want to completely ruin the night. I have been looking forward to tonight since he told me about the reservations. "Let's go home and I'll make your favorite meal to make it up to you."

I attempt to slip away out from beside him but his hand quickly lands on my hip and holds me in place beside him.

"We can't just leave Vic here all by her lonesome after she was kind enough to sit with me while I waited. That would be rather rude of us, now wouldn't it?"

That name again. _Vic._ Why is it so familiar? _Vic._ I suck in a deep, shaky breath that's not quite a gasp, and the tension in my body ratchets up a few notches. Eyes narrowed, I surreptitiously look back and forth between the two of them. My smile gets tighter and it's killing me to keep it in place, but I'm determined to do so. With the elusive truth suddenly crashing down on me, I can't think of a single possible answer that would sound sincere. Luckily, I don't have to. The bartender walks up just before my silence becomes obvious.

'_Vic told me the funniest joke at lunch today . . .'_

"Can I get a martini, extra dirty with two olives, please?" If I am going to make it through this, I'm going to need all the help I can get.

'_I've got to stay late with Vic tonight to finish going over these reports.'_

"Thanks," I say with real gratitude behind my words when he sets my drink down on the bar.

'_I wasn't expecting you to have dinner waiting. Vic and I grabbed something after we finished up.'_

"Will that be all?" he asks the three of us—rhetorically I think, because Scarlet and the Asshole already have drinks in front of them. His smile is too friendly and his eyes are raking up and down my body. _I can use this, _I think as I look up at him from under my lashes and return his smile.

'_I'm going to be late again, honey.'_

"Can you start a tab for me?" I ask him, looking from him to my drink and then back to him, subtly hinting to keep them coming. He smiles knowingly.

'_Not going to make it to dinner with your folks, love. Sorry.'_

"Not a problem, Miss…?"

'_Fuck, honey! The campaign Vic and I are working on hit a snag. I was under the gun and forgot about your birthday. I'm sorry'_

I tell him, flashing a big smile as I grab my drink and take a sip before turning back to face my two companions. I can barely mask my rage at this point. _That lying motherfucker! How dare he?_ Lying by omission is still lying, and not telling me the truth is suspect. I slam my martini, chomp my olives and pick up the full one that has replaced the empty one while the Liar makes uncomfortable small talk with _Vic _and she continuously checks either the door or her cell phone. _Wash, rinse, and repeat._

I have no interest in what they are talking about, so I chat with the bartender, Benjamin . . . _but you can call me Benji; it's what all my friends call me_ . . . because he's good company_. _Meanwhile my _loving _boyfriend—too afraid of the confrontation he knows will happen if he says a word to me about how much I am drinking—glares at my new, best-good friend, Benjamin, every time he brings me a new drink, silently trying to get him to cut me off. Benjamin smirks at him, and it makes me like him that much more.

I am on my fifth consecutive martini before I feel the need to join their conversation. I know it's not a good idea, but I really don't care.

"So, Vic…" I say, dragging out the 'V', and snapping the 'ic' as I dig my nails into his lower back. I know the exact moment that he knows that I know with he failed to tell me; I can practically hear the warning bells go off in his head. I have to give him some credit; he's definitely not a pussy. His body stiffens a bit more and he sits a little straighter, but he stoically bears it, giving no outward indication that I'm trying to rip his kidneys out with my dull, barely-there nails. "You guys seem to work a lot of overtime. Your significant other doesn't mind all the late nights?"

Just as I intended, _Vic _squirms like one of the worms my father put on my hook for me when I was a kid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the jackass desperately trying to warn her with his eyes, and I take a slow sip of my fresh martini. Unfortunately, before she has to answer me, her phone rings and she snatches it up. He uses the opportunity to pull me close.

"What the fuck kind of game are you playing? You know she's the boss' daughter, right?" he whispers furiously into my ear, nipping at it flirtatiously when he pulls away. Him and his need to always keep up appearances.

"_Vic_?" I sneer. "You never mentioned Vic was a woman. Huh? Interesting."

"She's just a co-worker. It didn't really seem relevant."

"So, it's irrelevant that she wants to fuck your brains out?" I raise an eyebrow in question and he at least has the decency to look guilty. "That's what I thought."

"She doesn't . . ."

Victoria hangs up her phone and, before either of us can say a word, says, "I have to run. James just called and it would appear that I am at the wrong restaurant. I swear to God I don't know where my head is at times.

"Pleasure to meet you. I really have heard so much about you, and I must say you've surpassed expectations," she says to me. She turns to him and, with a nod and much too much familiarity with my boyfriend while she's getting ready to go meet hers, she cheerily says, "You, I will see Monday."

I'm smiling, but it's fake and forced, and I'm thinking violent thoughts because I don't understand how she can be so deceptively sweet to the girlfriend of the man she's fucking. She stands up and looks at him as if they have a secret—which they do, it's just not a secret anymore. Suddenly, she grabs his free hand, steps towards him . . . and kisses him. It lands on his cheek, just barely brushing the corner of his mouth, and Edward stutters out a ragged, "Yeah, see ya Monday. G'night, Vic."

I don't react at all, I can't, I'm so beyond furious that I stand there like a statue and let her leave without bitchslapping her like I want to. It's not until she is already halfway to the door that I am capable of anything other than breathing. I pick up my drink, toss back the last of it and then slam it forcefully down on the bar. _Thank God for stemless barware._ I stay still for a few more seconds before I have to pull away, unable to stand him touching me any longer. I stumble a bit as I walk away under the guise of paying my tab but, really, I just don't want to be anywhere near him.

I'm paying, leaving a generous tip, at the opposite end of the bar and trying to act as if I don't notice the glare he is directing at the bartender and me. _What right does he have? None._ I start to walk away, but Benji grabs my wrist, stopping me. My eyes reflexively snap to his face, questioning, and then almost immediately dart to my soon-to-be ex. His jaw is clenched so tight that I can practically hear the bones grinding against one another. He's no longer sitting and his fists are clenched and, God, the man really is beautiful. I'm distracted for a second, but then I remember that I don't give a fuck and I focus my smile on Benji.

"You should give me a call sometime after you drop that tool that you're here with," he says with a sexy smile . . . a sexy smile that is, sadly, completely wasted on me.

He backs away from me to fill an order. As he pulls away, his fingertips drag across the delicate skin on the underside of my wrist and down to my hand, when our fingers come in contact he slips me a scrap of paper and I wonder where it came from. He winks and I feel myself return it with a saucy smile as I walk away. _He's good, but he's too smooth. _

Four eyes watch me turn and walk out of the bar area towards the exit and I have to admit I like it; it makes me feel desired. I don't look at either of them when I leave or as I step out into the cold night air.

I carefully walk down the block towards the street where I parked my car, regretting that last martini and trying to sort out the jumbled mess in my head. I'm so lost in my own thoughts, vacillating between nearly manic rage and choking sorrow, that I don't hear his angry footsteps . . . _clack, clack, clack, clack_ . . . approaching me until it's too late and his hand is tightly gripping my forearm, jerking me to a halt. He roughly spins me around to face him, grabs my other shoulder, holding me in place, and then he begins to shake me.

Eyes wild and spitting mad, he looks feral and a bit frightening, but rather than scare me I find myself excited by it, by him, and I feel the need to push him until he completely loses it.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry? The bartender doesn't get off for a few more hours—I asked," he snarls through clenched teeth. "What the fuck was that? You think it's okay to blatantly flirt with a guy right fucking in front of me? You weren't the first woman that _Benji_ gave his number to tonight, but if you want to be another notch on his bedpost, be my fucking guest."

_Wrong fucking thing to say, dear. Pot, let me introduce you to kettle . . . preferably upside your head._

I put my hands on his chest and shove with everything I have and then twist out of his grasp.

"You have some fucking nerve. I can't . . . I just . . . you're honestly . . . what the fuck?" I whirl around, throwing my hands in the air because I am fucking done with this conversation and I am done with him and I am just—_done_. I storm off in the direction of my parked car. "Why don't you just get back to fucking Vic. I didn't mean to interrupt. And you know what, why don't you go ahead and make it a sleepover this time, 'cause you're not welcome at the apartment. You can come back after I get my shit moved out."

This time I hear him when he finally starts after me, quickly closing the distance between us. I think about running, but know that it's not going to land me anywhere other than on my ass and then the emergency room, in that order. Instead, I ignore him and concentrate on fishing my keys out of the too-deep pocket of my long coat since my hands are trembling so badly that I can't seem to grip them. I reach my car, alone on a strangely deserted side street, and fumble with trying to get the key in the lock, cursing myself for not having taken the time to replace the battery on the lock remote that's dangling uselessly from my key ring.

I almost succeed, but before I have more than the tip of the key in, I am spun around and slammed against the door of my car. My keys clatter noisily to the ground. We are nose to nose, both of us so incensed we are practically incandescent. The only sound in the frozen evening is the heavy breaths puffing out of us in icy clouds. My nipples tighten, my girly parts clench and the slickness between my thighs increases. I can't deny how excited his forcefulness and anger are making me.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" he growls, breaking the silence.

"You're a smart man, what the fuck does it look like? I'm fucking leaving."

"The fuck you are! You're not driving anywhere."

"Fuck you!" I shout, because it's the first thing I think of and I am angry and irrational.

"The fuck is your problem?"

"Wh-what the fuck is my . . . ? What the fuck is my problem? Like you don't know, you cheating fucking bastard!"

"I don't know what the fuck you are talking about. You're fucking delusional—cheating! I'm not fucking cheating! I'm not so sure about you though. Could you have acted like a bigger whore in there, or been a bigger bitch to my co-worker?"

_He did not just call me a whore?_

Before I know what I'm doing, I raise my hand and slap him hard. I vaguely register the burning sting in my palm, but the endorphins rushing through my system keep me from really feeling it.

"Don't you fucking dare call me a whore. I have never fucked around on you. Too bad you can't say the same thing, because she looked like more than just your co-worker to me. I mean, she was practically sitting in your lap . . . and why the fuck were you whispering in her ear? It wasn't that fucking loud in there."

He blanches and my vision goes completely red, jealousy, rage, and betrayal all mingling together into one swirling vortex that sucks me in. I slap him again, using my other hand, and then I really lose it. I'm screaming and screeching like a mad woman as I pummel his chest with my ineffectual fists. He tries to speak, but I don't let him because I don't care to hear what he has to say.

"You son of a bitch . . . I fucking knew it . . . hate you . . . swear to God . . . go fuck your whore . . . get off me . . . I'll fucking kill you . . . how dare you . . . let me go . . . !"

He traps both of my hands in one of his and then holds them between us against his chest. The unintelligible stream spewing from my mouth is mostly silenced when his lips slam against mine, his mouth swallowing my angry words. I try to turn my face away to avoid his kiss, but his free hand plunges into my long hair and he twists a large chunk of it around it. Viciously yanking, he tugs my head into position and then attacks my mouth again. He licks and sucks and bites my lips attempting to force a response from me, but I keep my lips resolutely locked.

My head roughly jerks back and his hand slams into the window of my driver's side door. With a voice that is rough and pained, he demands, "God dammit, Isabella, fucking kiss me!"

Before I can tell him to fuck off, his lips are back on mine—hard, rough, desperate, unyielding, oh so enticing—and I find myself giving in, returning his kiss in kind. He pulls my head back and works his mouth down the column of my neck, alternating licking and scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin. He releases my hands and I lift them up to wrap around his neck, braiding my hands into his hair. He moves back up my neck and then his breath, like his frantic words, is hot against my ear.

"There is no one else, Isabella. No one. Don't you know that yet? Can't you tell how crazy you make me?" he pants, pressing his hips into me, eliciting a sharp cry. He takes my earlobe into his mouth, and my rapidly vanishing train of thought returns.

"What the fuck did you whisper to her?"

Clearly frustrated, he growls against my ear and the vibrations send desire shooting through my body. The coiling sensation returns to my belly, but this time it's lust, not jealousy and dread. My earlobe is pinched between his teeth and his words come out all mumbled when he reluctantly answers me.

"I was telling her about the ring I have in my pocket."

I need to see his eyes. I need to know if he's lying to me. I use my grip in his hair to jerk his head back, ripping his teeth off of my lobe, and we both cry out. In pain or pleasure I'm not sure, but we're both gasping as we stare into each other's souls.

He pulls my hands away from his lion's mane and slams his fists down on the roof of my car, caging my head between his tight arms as he confesses.

"Fuck! This isn't how I wanted to do this! I was going to fucking ask you to marry me tonight. Vic knew, but she hadn't seen the ring and I refused to show it to her before it was on your finger. She asked me to describe it to her, but I was too worried about you surprising me and overhearing . . . I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. _Ha!_ I guess I fucked that up miserably." He sighs in defeat and tears at his hair with both hands.

I look at him for about two seconds before I push off my car and launch myself at him. All of the anger and hurt . . . everything falls away. It's just him and I. Joy swirls up around me and I see disbelief in his eyes, but my smile is wide and reflected in mine. I throw my arms back around his neck and pepper his chest, his broad shoulders—anywhere I can reach—with kisses.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that, right?" he asks, but there's a smile on his face that's nearly as wide as mine, so I don't care, I just want him to kiss me again. He finally complies and bends down to kiss me.

"Crazy for you," I mutter against his lips.

We forget where we are—an empty side street in a quiet Seattle neighborhood—or that we were just fighting. We're consumed with each other, and I have to have him. Now. I don't care that it's twenty degrees in February or that anyone could catch us. I can't wait. With a need that matches my own, Edward searches for the hem of my coat. Giving up, he grabs the front of it and yanks. I hear the buttons . . . _ting, ting, ting_ . . . hitting the concrete and the side of my car, and then the fabric parts. Still kissing, licking, tasting, he nudges my coat open wider. He starts gathering the material of my dress with one hand, ruching it up while I'm fumbling with his belt. I'm grateful that his overcoat isn't buttoned because I don't know that I would have been about to get it out of my way.

My dress is bunched up over his forearm, and he's rubbing his fingers over my silk-covered sex . . . _once_ . . . _twice_ . . . and then he pushes the damp cloth aside and plunges two fingers in. We both groan and I attack his tie, tugging clumsily on the Windsor knot at the base of his throat. I only succeed in getting it partially loosened, before my patience gives out. I am rapidly losing all dexterity due to what his fingers are doing below my waist, so I don't even bother with the little buttons on his white oxford.

I copy the action he used on my coat, only using much less force, and several buttons go flying. I move my hands up and repeat until I have his chest exposed to me, and then I lean in and nip at one cold hardened nipple. I swipe my tongue across the abused flesh and then can't concentrate anymore. I let my head fall back against my car and ogle his gorgeous, muscular body while his fingers pump into me. I have never seen a more beautiful man than him, and an overwhelming urgency washes over me. I have to have him inside me now. Not his fingers, I need _him._

"Edward . . . now, please. I-I . . . need you. Now."

I know he feels it because doesn't say anything. He pushes his partially-opened pants out of his way, pulls himself out of his boxer briefs, wraps an arm around me to help lift me as I hop up and wrap my legs around him. Once he is sure that I am situated, his fingers slide out of me and hold my panties aside as he pushes all the way inside of me in one thrust. I gasp at the sensation and he groans, dropping his head onto my shoulder. He holds still for just a moment, both of us savoring the sensation of him so deep inside me, and then he starts to slowly rock his hips.

Neither of us has the patience for slow and gentle, and after his first few initial thrusts, he sets a blistering pace. I try to match it, but the force of his hips slamming into mine makes it difficult. It's all I can do to hang onto him as I cry out his name. Y_es! Edward, yes! So good!_ I give into the searing pleasure as he fucks me roughly against the side of my car . . . _in and out_ . . . _in and out_ . . . _in_ . . . _out_ . . . _in_ . . . _out_ . . . chests heaving . . . _in_ . . . _out_ . . . _yesyesyes, oh, yes _. . . it's suddenly too much.

His knees are shaking and he's groaning. He buries his face in my neck and mutters, "Car. Now. Keys . . . ?"

"G-g-ground! Oh, God!"

Pinning me between him and the car, he slides us down until he is just close enough to reach the ground. I don't know how he does it, but he manages to find them, unlock the back door, and maneuver us inside and lay me back onto the seat, all without severing our connection. When he is finally holding himself above me, hanging half-way out of my car, and once again moving inside me, there is no more thought, it's all sensation . . . _hard . . . rough . . . smooth . . . slide . . . wet . . . heat . . . so good . . . yes, yes, there! Don't stop!_

I'm crying out, we're groaning, both of us repeating 'I love you,' over and over again until it's a chant . . . .

Our sense of urgency increases, swells along with our need for each other . . . _more, more, more, more, more _. . . we can't get enough. It can never be fast enough, hard enough, deep enough, _enough_ enough. _Oh, but God!_ Suddenly it is enough, it is more than enough, it's everything.

I'm so close and I can feel his movements becoming erratic. _Yes, yes! I love you. Oh, God, I love you!_ Tensing with anticipation, I feel like I'm on the cusp of something big, much bigger than me, bigger than sex. I feel it coming at me like I freight train, and then . . . _oh_ . . . it's there, and he's there too. It's crashing into us and he's spilling into me and I shatter into a thousand pieces that all go spinning out into the universe and I don't care if I'm ever put back together again.

My senses try to return, but fragments of me aren't mending and I don't know if they ever will. Somehow, what all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't do, Edward does with a whisper . . . _I love you_ . . . just before his lips press down on mine.

They leave me and I say, "More than life."

I pull his mouth back to mine, sealing my vow with a kiss, and then our foreheads press together and we just breathe. We lay silent like this for a long while, just breathing each other in, feeling our heartbeats go from thudding to cadenced once again. After not enough time, yet too much time, I finally break the silence.

"So are you going to ask me to marry you, or what?"

"I thought I already did."

I say nothing and he shifts around on top me. The warmth of his chest against mine vanishes and I reluctantly crack one eye to see where it's gone. Peering up, I see him holding himself up above me with one arm, looking down at me with a slightly stormy expression.

"Well?" he demands, causing me to open both eyes.

"Well what, Edward?" My voice is teasing, taunting and light. I let my eyes flutter closed, but it doesn't hide the smile on my face.

"Well, are you going to marry me or not, Isabella Marie Swan?" He sounds demanding, maybe even a bit angry, and my stomach clenches in response. He's still buried inside me and I feel him twitch in response.

Angry Edward turns me on, but I am pretty sure that Bitchy Bella does something for him too, otherwise we probably wouldn't push each other's buttons so much. Even now, in this happy moment, I can't help but goad him a little, wanting to draw out more of his primal side, maybe get the beast to come out and play some more. _I am so masochistic._

"I thought I already answered you?"

"Bell-a . . ." he warns, thrusting his hips against mine. Hot desire courses through my veins as I feel him growing inside me and I push back against him.

"Again?" I ask, hopeful.

"Answer me."

I no longer feel the need to argue with him.

"Yes, Edward. Yes, yes, yes! Of course."

"Say it again." He's fully hard when he pushes his hips against me this time, immediately withdrawing almost all the way.

"Yes!" He pushes in.

"Again!" Out.

"Yessssss!" I moan-slash-hiss as he slowly pushes in yet again.

This time when he pulls back, he doesn't stop before he plunges back in. He's pumping his hips freely now and the pressure between us builds and spirals and climbs and grows and he's kissing me.

"Mine," he says against my pliant lips with a low growl that I feel reverberate through his chest.

Something surges between us, the pressure peaks . . . and we cry out against each other's parted lips, shaking and shuddering and falling and then we drift back to earth. Spent, we lay across the back seat of my car, legs poking out of the open door. His warm weight, limp and lifeless on top of me, is pleasant and I hum softly in satisfaction. If I was a cat, I would be purring. Eyes still closed, I stifle a giggle at the thought, and smile instead. Somehow, Edward knows and I feel his smile press against my chest.

"Happy Valentine's Day, baby," I say as I gently brush damp hair off his sweaty forehead.

"Happy Valentine's day to you, Mrs. Cullen," he replies.

"Swan-Cullen," I amend.

"I don't think so." His voice raises and there's an edge to it. He continues, his tone clipped, and leaving no room for argument, "Cullen. No hyphen."

_Arghhhh! Chauvinistic caveman!_

I argue. I can always find room.

"Don't think just because you put a ring on my finger that you dictate what I do or what name I'm going to take . . ."

"Isabella. Shut up."

_And here we go again_ . . .

I roll my eyes, but I can't quite keep the smile off my face. I'm wondering if we'll be able to make it home before round three starts when Edward starts to rouse. Somehow, I just don't think so . . .


End file.
